


showdown

by Anonymous



Series: new waters [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Daddy Kink, M/M, Maids, PWP, Power Play, READ THE AUTHORS NOTE, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, for now anyway, the daddy kink is kinda just teased at though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15072773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: If you asked his best-friend Ned, which Peter tried not to, he’d tell you that Peter was clinically insane for complaining about working for one of America’s most fuckable billionaire bachelors, which. Well, Peter would be lying if he said he hadn’t been intrigued, at least initially, by his older, attractive, yet intimidating boss. But he’d forced every bit of intrigue he had so far down he was pretty sure he couldn’t find it anymore if he looked.or, the one where tony fucks his outrageously pretty maid





	showdown

**Author's Note:**

> so TECHNICALLY peters of age in the state of new york. however, this doesn't automatically make this a-okay, and i would not condone such ... acts in real life. 
> 
> just be aware of the fact that he's seventeen.
> 
> ok enjoy!

Peter near-sprints up the long, winding driveway of his boss’s house, book-bag banging against his hip as he runs. He can’t help but pray he won’t be home.

He’s ten minutes late and he had made it clear after the last seven times that if he was late once more time, there’d be _repercussions_. 

He hadn’t spent much time dwelling on what he meant by that, for the sake of his own mental health. ‘Repercussions’ meant anger, and he didn’t do well when he raised his voice at him.

The large wall clock in the kitchen reads 15:11 as he pours into the kitchen, coming in through the back entrance and hurriedly throwing his bag onto the marble-top counter, making a beeline for the utility closet and thanking his stars when he finds the house to be pretty much silent apart from his own movements.

He’s eleven minutes late.

As he enters the closet, Peter takes a minute to breathe, hands braced on his knees as he lets his soft pants soothe him, regulate his heartbeat. He stands up straight after a minute and grabs a mop, some floor cleaner, and a dust rag, making his way back through the wide hallway into the kitchen, and promptly drops every item onto the floor as he meets his boss and bane of his existence, Tony Stark, standing there, leaned against the wall next to the door through which he’d entered.

Suppressing questions of _how_ , he clears his throat, meeting his expectant gaze reluctantly.

“Class ran over late,” he mumbles, gaze lowering to the ground as his excuse is met with a scoff.

“To clarify, you’re just in highschool right? Not a pHD student. I don’t see why you can never seem to make it out on time.”

Yeah, he didn’t do well when he raised his voice, but not for reasons you might think. As it is, there’s a dull throbbing in his lower abdomen.

“Finals are coming up,” he continues, picking up the fallen cleaning supplies and setting them on the island that stands between them, fully aware how fucked it was to be turned on right now. “I was speaking to my teacher, about my grade. I’m sorry.” The last bit is a little hard to say, he must admit.

Mr. Stark’s gaze doesn’t soften even marginally, like it sometimes does if he’s lucky, with those two words. “’Sorry’ doesn’t shine my floors. I don’t pay you to show up if and when you please, Peter, I have guests over later for fucks sake.”

“Well I’ll get everything done before then. It was only eleven minutes, it won’t happen again.”

When Peter was younger, he’d had the naïve childhood dream that at age seventeen, he’d be some rich, well-known socialite, who woke at noon only to ask his assistant to take care of the days duties for his, so he could go have lunch with other rich, well-known socialites.

But here he was, in his junior year of high school, working as a glorified maid – _housekeeper_ , Mr. Stark called it. Usually when he was mocking him – for a man that lived the type of life he’d dreamt of.

It wasn’t a terrible job. Peter imagined that if his boss were something of a normal person capable of feeling human compassion, he’d have a pretty sweet deal going. He paid him well, very well, and always on time, with time and a half for call-ins, and each extra hour unscheduled he worked. Mr. Stark wasn’t unreasonably untidy, either, and once Peter’d made sure the laundry was done, the beds – all nine of them – were made, and the floors and furniture were positively sparkling, he got to sit around on his phone, or go through Mr. Stark's fridge and watch T.V. if he wasn’t home. 

If you asked his best-friend Ned, which Peter tried not to, he’d tell you that Peter was clinically insane for complaining about working for one of America’s most fuckable billionaire bachelors, which. Well, Peter would be lying if he said he hadn’t been intrigued, at least initially, by his older, attractive, yet intimidating boss. But he’d forced every bit of intrigue he had so far down he was pretty sure he couldn’t find it anymore if he looked. 

Mr. Stark terrified him.

He was an asshole, and an intelligent one at that, which made it worse, because his little quips tended to sting. He wasn’t a baby about it and could take just as much attitude as he gave out, so Peter had to give him that, at least.

Mr. Stark shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and turned to leave the kitchen, leaving Peter feeling like a scolded child. “Make me a sandwich while you’re in there, will you?” He called as he ascended the stairs. Peter’s mouth fell open.

“A sandwh- I’m not your cook,” he said, indignant, practically stomping out into the hall.

“The way I see it, you’re whatever I want you to be. At least if you want to keep spending my money on those hideous graphic t-shirts you like to wear.”

Peter spluttered, looking down at his tee which had the ‘Star Wars’ logo displayed across the front, then tried to respond for a good five seconds, fragments of sentences coming out of his mouth before he moved onto the next, “I – You can’t just – Just because you pay me, doesn’t –”

Mr. Stark watched him with an amused smile on his face. 

“Pretty sure I’ve got some deli meat in the fridge. Surprise me,” was all he said, before leaving him, standing there, slack-jawed.

Making his way back into the kitchen, Peter knocked the mop to the ground out of rage. 

He heard him Mr. Stark laugh at the crash.

# oOo

Mr. Stark loved to host.

He’s cocky and confident, and it resonates off of him in waves whenever he has people over. The easy small-talk he makes, the shameless flirting, whether the subject was a freshly legal co-ed or a mature woman going through her third divorce, they all got that same look on their face eventually, and Peter would watch their eyes not-so-subtly follow him around for the rest of the evening, like a puppy begging for its owner to come and play.

At present, he has a shiny new blonde on his arm, and she looks positively enchanted by him, her hand pushing playfully at his broad shoulder as she laughs at a joke he’s making.

And Peter collects empty dishes and glasses, and clean spills, and ignores the inquisitive eyes of the other guests, and the suggestive comments they make, often not caring whether or not he was in earshot.

The night goes on, the pianist continues playing, and Peter continues to do his job, waiting for his shift to finally end.

“I’m just saying, Tony,” comes the low voice of one of his boss’ acquaintances to his far right as he sweeps up some spilled crackers, “if I were you, I’d have him taking care of a lot more than just household duties. If you know what I mean.”

Mr. Stark laughs, albeit stiffly, “Who, Peter? I know better than to get intimate with the help, Steve. I’m not a teenager anymore.”

Peter stands upright, sends what he hopes is a piercing glare over his shoulder at the both of them, and then makes his way into the kitchen to numbly clean the dirty cutlery, his little Bluetooth speaker quietly playing his music in the background, a stark contrast in genre from the piano music in the lounge where the party’s going on.

The only thing Peter likes about when Mr. Stark hosts are the generous tips, usually from the older male crowd. Everything else about it can go to hell.

He hears footsteps approaching him and doesn’t bother to look up, exhausted from a full day of school and then having to do this in the evening, and also the whole my-boss-lives-to-make-my-life-hell thing, which was also an issue.

“What is this? Indie?” Mr. Stark asks, commenting on Peter’s choice in music for the millionth time since he’s started working there.

Peter doesn’t answer.

“You’re pretty sensitive tonight, aren’t you? Thought I’d gotten that out of you after your first few weeks.”

God, the first few weeks. Peter tried to block them out of his memory as best as possible, but every so often he’d remember Mr. Stark sat, reclined, as he watched Peter work, criticizing eyes and sharp tongue following his everywhere he went, and he’d break into a cold sweat.

“Guess you just keep finding new weak spots,” he grumbles, meaning to sound detached and biting but just coming off as weak. Clearing his throat, he tries again, “Don’t you have some single mom to be doing right about now? Not really a Stark event unless I have to disinfect the sheets tomorrow morning, is it?”

He laughs softly, before taking what sounds like a sip from his drink. “Not tonight. I think I’ll spare you that pleasure.”

“You’re so good to me, sir,” Peter deadpans, rinsing the dish in his hand off with warm water before placing it in the drying rack.

Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything else, but Peter hears his footsteps getting closer until he’s behind him, champagne glass in hand. He sets the glass in the sink, lingering for another second, just long enough for Peter to feel his warm breath on his neck and have to suppress a shiver. 

And then he’s leaving again, as if he was never there in the first place, and Peter’s stood there, mechanically reaching for the glass he left and cleaning it, refusing, refusing, _refusing_ , to acknowledge the heavy, thrumming sensation in his lower stomach.

It’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened, either, although he can’t exactly define what this is. The long glances, the sudden closeness.

He’d been a mess the whole time Mr. Stark had supervised him when he first started, the older man making no attempt to hide where he was looking as Peter’d bent over and scrubbed his floors, only speaking when it was to tell him he’d missed a spot, dark eyes following him as he worked. He’d commented once that he worked well, down on his knees. Peter had actually had to suppress a moan.

He’d sat there, a knowing smirk on his face, first few buttons of his probably ridiculously expensive dress shirt undone, thighs spread apart on the cream leather sofa, tumbler of Scotch in hand, looking like ‘power’ personified, and it made him want to _mount_ him. 

And he’d started to think Mr. Stark might actually be attracted to him too, as naïve as he had been, but it’s not that easy with him, it never has been. He doesn’t know what’s between them if anything. Whether it was a game for him, or if he was so used to having the men and women around him wrapped around his long, thick fingers – whether his behavior just came naturally to him. Maybe he didn’t even have any idea of what he was doing to him. 

To be fair, Peter didn’t like to think of it much, either; he couldn’t let him get in his head, because he would find out, and then he would _know_ , and he didn’t even want to think of what working for him then would be like. This was already bad enough, thanks. 

# oOo

Peter had thought Mr. Stark was kidding when he’d assured him that he wouldn’t have to change any of the sheets in the many guest bedrooms when he came in the day after his party, but he’d kept his word.

The other beds were untouched.

Technically, this didn’t mean he hadn’t had anyone stay over, but he’d never let any of his flings into his own bed before, and he doesn’t see why he’d start now.

But- but it doesn’t matter. Who he fucks, or doesn’t, is none of Peter’s business.

He deals with the aftermath of the party that had gone on last night. He’d left about a half hour before Mr. Stark’s last guest; they’d both sat out on the first-floor balcony, drinking and talking when Peter slipped out for the night.

And apparently, she hadn’t stayed over. If that thought puts a little spring in Peter’s step, well, no one has to know.

He’s out for the afternoon, working late, which means Peter is left to work in peace, his speaker playing his music a little louder than he usually would.

The front doorbell rings, and Peter sets the rag and polish in his hands down to go answer it. Swinging the door open, he feels the little speech his boss has drilled into him bubble up into his throat – _I'm sorry, Mr. Stark isn’t in, and I’m not sure when he will be, can I take a message?_ – but it dies on his lips when he sees who it is. 

The blonde that he had been talking to last night, who’d practically hung off of his every word.

The woman clears his throat, and Peter takes a step backwards, quits his gawking. “Oh, um – he’s – he’s not here,” he manages, his cheeks flushing at his stammering.

The woman nods. “Yes, I know Tony’s at work. I wanted to wait for him and surprise him,” she says, not-so-subtly eyeing Peter up and down. His ripped jeans and baseball tee do not compare to this woman’s figure-hugging pale pink dress and Louboutin heels.

_I’m so fucking stupid_ , he thinks. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to let anyone in while he’s not here,” Peter mumbles, looking everywhere but her eyes.

She sniffs. “Yes, I’m sure, but I’m not ‘anyone’. You can call him and ask him if you like. Tell him it’s Meredith from last night.”

Peter is going to be sick.

“I’m under strict instructions not to bother him at work, please either call him yourself or come back later,” Peter garbles, before swinging the huge door shut and speed-walking back into the kitchen where he turns his music up until he can no longer hear the furious knocking on the door.

He was stupid to think just because he’d decided to grace his with some near-physical-contact last night, he liked him. God, he was pathetic. A little proximity and he’d started allowing himself to think – to hope – 

Polishing the cutlery with renewed vigour, he strengthens his resolve. Things would go back to the way before, and he would ignore any future advances if you could even call them that.

_Who, Peter? I know better than to get intimate with the help_ , he recalls.

His jaw clenches.

# oOo

Mr. Stark comes back in the evening, about twenty minutes before Peter is due to go home, crushing his hope of escaping without so much as having to look at him.

He’s sat on a bar stool at the island, absently scrolling through his phone when he strolls into the kitchen, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and removing his tie. Peter looks away.

“Nice to see you too,” he says.

Ignoring that, Peter tells him, “I’m leaving in twenty minutes if you want to get me to change your tires, or maybe paint the ceilings,” he snarks.

“That sandwich was excellent, by the way,” he tells him, amusement in his voice.

Peter doesn’t answer, eyes trained on his phone screen. Just as he’s contemplating leaving early, Mr. Stark slides a small business card across the counter towards him, and Peter looks down at it, confused. 

“From Steve, you know, the guy from last night. He told me to give it to you, but don’t worry, I’ve already told him you’re not interested, so he won’t be too hurt if you don’t call.”

Peter’s eyes flash upwards. “Who says I’m not interested?” he demands.

He looks at him for a long second, long enough for Peter to find himself slipping into that fantasy where he cares about him enough to get jealous, and then the corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk. “Well, are you? Definitely didn’t seem that way last night.”

“Well maybe – maybe I was playing hard to get.”

Mr. Stark chuckles. “Hard to get, huh? We both know that’s not exactly your area.”

Peter’s mind flashes back to the night before, to several other moments like that. He’d never been touched by him in a way that could be _inappropriate_ , more like inappropriate adjacent, but in those moments… it didn’t take a master of body language to know that he’d likely let Mr. Stark take it as far as he liked, do whatever he wanted to him.

His cheeks flame.

“ _Meredith_ came ‘round,” he practically spits, all previous resolve and determination to remain calm thrown out the window as he takes in the amusement clear in his eyes. “She wanted to come in. Surprise you. Thank you for last night.”

A short pause, and then, “Is this what your attitude’s about? You think I’m fucking Meredith?”

Peter splutters, “I don’t care _who_ you’re f–”

“Bullshit,” he cuts him off. He folds his arms. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. Is that what this is about?” He asks, his voice raised just slightly. Peter’s chest tightens. Shit, is he about to lose his job?

“No,” he lies. “Honest, I don’t – I was just … surprised because you kept the sheets clean, and usually you don’t, so – forget it. I’m gonna call Steve anyway, so even if you and Meredith were a thing, that’s fine, it’s totally fine, maybe we could double date or something.” Peter is well aware that he’s rambling, weaving countless lies together, but he can’t seem to stop it.

Another pause.

“She didn’t stay over last night. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh,” Peter says quietly. Well now he just feels like an idiot, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to show it. Clearing his throat, he slowly steps towards the door. “Well, that’s – I mean, okay. Anyway, I’m just going to – to go do some dusting in the lounge.” It’s all he can manage before he notices Mr. Stark’s own slow steps in his direction, and his throat tightens up so much he can barely breathe.

“Why the rush?” He asks his, as he stands, suddenly frozen in place, like prey trapped by a hunter.

“My boss is kind of a dick about time management,” he says weakly.

Mr. Stark smiles a little as he steps right in front of him and keeps moving, forcing Peter to retreat backwards again.

“M-Mr. Stark,” he stammers, taking slow steps back until he feels the cool marble of the kitchen island pressing into his back, any further protest dying in his throat as the older man presses two fingers under Peter’s chin, tilts his head up to meet his gaze.

“Yes?” He asks, so close he towers over him, a thick eyebrow arched.

“If you’re just going to walk out in a few seconds and pretend nothing ever happened…” He trails off, heart pounding in his chest. He’s cut off by Mr. Stark curving a strong hand around his hip, gently but firmly turning Peter to face the island. His face burns, his hands lying flat on the cool marble counter.

“You’ll do what?” He questions him, lips closer to his ear, against him in nearly the exact same position as last night.

“I’ll- I’ll–”

“You’ll do nothing and keep pretending you hate me while we both pretend not to know how you really feel?” He substitutes.

“I don’t pretend,” he can’t even convince himself.

“No,” he hums in agreement, “you can’t even seem to bring yourself to do that nowadays.”

He swallows. The hand he has on his hip rises to his lower back, pressing his upper body flush against the countertop with ease until he’s bent over. “T-Tony,” he stammers, his head spinning, hoping that calling him by his first name will help assure him that it’s real, that this isn’t just another very, very vivid dream.

“That’s ‘sir’ to you, Peter, I don’t want to get angrier at you than I already am.”

“Sir,” he croaks.

“That’s better,” he says lowly. “Now, are we still pretending like you don’t drip for me on a daily basis? That you don’t want me to do something about it? Come on, Peter, I thought we were past that.”

“I don’t _drip_ ,” Peter mutters, face flushing red. 

He chuckles softly. “We’ll see.”

The promise sends a rush of heat to Peter’s core, a small but audible moan escaping him. A small step closes the small space between them, and Peter can feel Mr. Stark’s hardening cock right up against him. He thinks, numbly, _huh, so the rumours are true. He_ is _packing_. 

Peter can barely breathe. 

“You get this… This air about you when you’re turned on. It’s insanely attractive, watching you get all flustered and hot. Addictive, almost. And it doesn’t take much, either, does it? All I have to do is raise my voice a little and it’d have you rearranging yourself in your pants.” He reaches around to Peter’s front, one-handedly undoing the button and zipper of his jeans.

As he tugs them down, letting them pool around his ankles, Peter whines, a soft, “Oh, God,” escaping him. 

“That’s a good boy,” he murmurs, making him _throb_. 

Stroking a large hand over his boxer-covered ass-cheek, he grabs and squeezes roughly before tugging them down too. His hands gently spread his cheeks, a low curse falling from Peter’s lips after he does so. Peter’s cheeks heat up, as the older man stops and just stares, the blush spreading down his chest and half confirming Mr. Stark’s suspicions.

“You dirty little slut,” Mr. Stark breathes, almost matter-of-factly, as if the title is indisputable. He pushes two fingers into Peter right away, and yeah. Suspicions confirmed. Peter cries out, heart thudding, squirming. “You stretched yourself out before you came here, huh?” He asks, curling his fingers inside him. Peter groans, his eyes squeezing shut as Mr. Stark spreads the digits, stroking his walls. Mr. Stark slowly pulls them out of him again, turns him around again to face him. “Do you usually finger yourself before work, hm?” Peter shakes his head – an obvious lie. Mr. Stark looks at him for a little over three seconds, and Peter nods instead, enjoying the soft groan that pulls out of his boss, his hand trailing down Peter’s body.

“So hard, baby,” he practically coos, wrapping a tight fist around him. “’S that for me?” 

He feels his legs getting weak as he continues his ministrations. This is Mr. Stark, his boss, fucking billionaire, bane of his existence, and he’s pulling him apart like this, has him standing naked in his fucking million dollar kitchen, he’s stroking his cock—

“Sir,” he pants out, hips jolting away on reflex at the relentless contact, only for Mr. Stark’s fingers to dig into his hips, holding him in place. He squirms mindlessly, helpless to the pleasure shooting down his spine, pooling low down in his stomach. He twists his wrist on the upstroke, rubbing the tacky pre-come Peter’s leaking against the sensitive head of his shaft, and Peter sees stars, hasn’t been pushed to the edge this quickly in fucking years. “I’m– I’m gonna–” Tony pulls his hand away. Peter feels two digits against his lips.

“Suck,” he tells him, and he does, wrapping his lips around them and tasting himself on him, enjoying the way the older mans eyes darken when they meet his. Peter moans softly, aching with the need to come, and snakes a hand between his legs to finish what he started.

Mr. Stark catches it before Peter can touch himself, pressing the same fingers under his chin to face him with a dark look in his eyes.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” He asks his. Peter feels feels himself _ache_. Mr. Stark takes hold of the hem of Peter's t-shirt as he speaks, pulling it up over his head, lips lifting in something akin to a smirk when he raises his arms in assistance, then kicks his jeans and boxers away from his ankles, standing completely naked.

“No,” Peter says, “I didn’t know there were _rules_.”

“Don’t do it again. Not without my permission.”

“Or what, you’ll fire me?” He asks, challenging him.

“Why don’t we get you down on your knees and we’ll see if you can convince me not to?” He says, suddenly gripping Peter by his upper arm and leading him into the lounge. The cool air brushes against every inch of his exposed skin and Peter bows his head forward to hide his face when they pass the floor-to-ceiling window, both embarrassed and aroused to think of anyone visiting and seeing his like this, naked and aching for his boss.

Mr. Stark stops at the sofa in the far corner of the room, situated next to the piano, and sits in it, eyes raking over his naked body, deftly undoing the buttons of his own shirt before discarding it.

Peter, face flushing, sinks to his knees, cheeks turning a deeper red when his eyes meet the tent in Mr. Stark’s slacks. Undoing the button and zipper, he tugs them down along with his Calvin’s, and can’t stop his eyes from widening when he’s met face-to-face with the lengthy thickness that is his cock. He slowly wraps a hand around it and it twitches in his grip.

“If I suck your cock good enough, you won’t fire me, sir?” he asks, looking up at him, high on the power play. Mr. Stark twitches again.

“We’ll see,” he says, voice even lower than usual. “Depends how good you can put that snarky little fuckhole to use.”

Peter moans softly and lowers his mouth to it, lapping at the tip softly before taking the head into his mouth, lips stretching around it, and sucking. His hands rest on his thighs, swallowing him down further, fingers digging into his flesh. 

“That’s it,” Mr. Stark murmurs, hands pushing Peter’s hair out of his face, “suck my cock.”

Peter moans around him. He tastes salty and musky, and he’s smooth, hot and heavy in his mouth

He pushes down farther, gurgling when he hits his throat, jaw straining against the size. As he’s about to pull off to catch his breath, he feels the hand he has in his hair tighten into a fist, and then push his head down further. He gags helplessly, his throat opening for it, eyes welling up with tears from the sensation. His vision blurred, he looks up at him, eyes wide. He fucks into his throat, shallow thrusts that choke him each time.

Mr. Stark groans quietly, low in his chest, before pulling Peter off of him.

“Your fucking mouth,” he curses as he pants, his chest heaving. There’s probably a puddle underneath Peter by this point. He wonders, absently, if he’ll have to mop that up afterwards.

“Good enough?” Peter rasps, spit and pre-come dripping down his chin.

Mr. Stark’s gaze is near-animalistic. “Stand up,” he tells him. 

“Had enough already?” he asks weakly, doing as he says.

“For now. No, now I want that sweet little hole wrapped around my cock. Think you can handle that, kid?”

A shiver runs through him. “Y-yeah, I can- yeah.” He moves closer to straddle him, slow until Mr. Stark wraps a huge hand around his waist and pulls Peter down on top of him. He gasps once he’s in his lap, feeling the heat of his dick against the place he wants him most, looking down at their naked laps, and then back up at him.

His gaze meets the older man’s before lowering, then, unexpectedly, Mr. Stark ducks his head and wraps his lips around one of his nipples, suckling softly while playing with the other, stroking it with his thumb. Peter whimpers, hips bucking almost involuntarily, and then starting to grind down on him with purpose as he feels his cock rub against his. 

Mr. Stark groans, head raising to suck a dark mark into the skin beneath his collarbone as Peter continues to move his hips, grinding desperately for the orgasm he’d been denied. The older man suddenly places both hands on his hips, fingers digging into the skin – Peter revels in the knowledge that there will be bruises there tomorrow – and raises him, chuckling softly at his pitiful whine when he’s forced to stop his movements.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, his right hand leaving his hip to wrap around himself, guiding himself to Peter hole. Peter positively glows at the endearment. “You’re gonna take it all for me like a good boy, aren’t you?” he asks him, meeting his eyes. Peter nods, easy for it after all these months – fuck, working for him has been like one long foreplay session.

“Yeah,” he pants, “yeah, ‘m gonna take it, please, fuck-”

He pushes his down with the hand still on his hip, and Peter lets out a sound close to a wail as he forces his way into him for the first time, an endless stream of curse-words falling from his lips and he goes deeper and deeper, stretching him out. His head is thrown back as he pants, tries to adjust. He feels pressure around his cock, and glances down to see Mr. Stark's fingers wrapped around it, slowly stroking, making him spasm around him. 

“God,” Mr. Stark says, almost reverently, eyes trailing over his body, “look at you." He flushes all over, pushing down further, hands splayed on his chest to steady himself. He shivers bodily when he feels himself seated in Mr. Stark’s lap once more, his cock fully seated inside of him. He looks down, rubbing a hand over his lower stomach, as if he could touch it from the outside.

He whimpers as he felt him throb inside of him. “Mr. Stark,” he moans, breathless.

“Yeah?” he asks his, a little out of breath himself. “How’s it feel, baby?”

“So full,” he whines.

“Mhm, I bet,” he tells him, cocky as ever. “Gonna bounce on my cock like a good boy, hm? Take what you want?”

Nodding, he lifts himself up, feeling him drag against his walls. The journey back downwards, albeit slow, makes him babble near-incoherently. 

“Oh- oh fuck,” he rasps, rising back up, feeling his hole tightening around him, his walls clutching at his cock.

He seats himself back down again, faster this time, and Tony watches him fucking himself on his dick the way he wants it, has wanted it all this time, fast and rough, thighs shaking from exertion. He doesn’t buck into him, doesn’t meet his thrusts, not even once. Peter’s hands lay flat on his pecs, and he digs his fingers into them, nails leaving red marks, body trembling with the need coursing through his.

The obscene sound of his cock fucking into him fills the lounge he’s spent the past year cleaning, dirtying it permanently. Mr. Stark pulls him forward a little, his chest against his as he gyrates against him, and then he kisses him. Slow, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the near-frenzied movements of his hips against his. Peter’s tongue slides against his own and he swallows every gasp, every moan, every sob as his cock drags in and out of him, so deep he swears he can feel it in his belly.

He judders to a sudden stop, his hips stuttering as Mr. Stark slips a hand between them again, stroking him a little quicker than before, fingers coated with his slickness. Peter moans desperately, and he holds him tight, jerking him until he shakes from the unrelenting masturbation, walls tightening even more around him until his thighs give out and he suddenly sinks all the way down, taking him in to the hilt. The shock of it makes his come, hard, shaking and near-screaming out his name, still desperately grinding against him, riding out his orgasm.

He’s still dazed when Mr. Stark lifts him, almost effortlessly, off of him, the sudden emptiness making his moan softly. He stands Peter up on his shaky legs, and then just as quickly, bends his limp frame over the arm of the chair they’d just defiled, giving him just enough time to brace his head against his arms before he’s pounding into him, repeatedly, his ass in the air. Peter’s face is pressed against the couch cushion, making little whimpers of ‘ _Ah, ah, ah_ ’, with every unforgiving thrust.

“You have no idea how fucking hot you are,” Mr. Stark breathes, hips snapping against hiss. “Seeing you every day in those godforsaken skinny jeans, knowing you wanted me, practically being able to hear your heart beat out of your chest whenever I so much as looked at you. Wanted to fill that pretty ass just to finally get that cock-hungry look off your face. But I think we’ve got that taken care of now, haven’t we Peter?” a hand tangles in his hair, and pulls his face out of the cushions. Peter gasps for air, tears streaming down his face as the pressure builds in his stomach. He’s going to come so hard he honestly feels as if part of him might not survive it. 

“Yes, sir!” he cries out, body trembling. “P-please, oh God, _please_.”

“Please what, hm?” Mr. Stark asks him, reveling in his soft little whimpers as he throbs around his shaft. 

“Want your come,” he pants. “Fuck, come in me, fill me up,” he begs as he nears his own finish. He slams into him, hard and deep and he lays there and _takes_ it, crying out as his strokes quicken.

“Let go for me, baby. Let me feel how tight you can get,” he tells him, voice low.

“Yes,” Peter gasps, tumbling off the edge, “Yes, fuck, yes, yes, _yes_.”

“That’s it,” he rumbles, leaning over his body, kissing his neck before sucking at the soft flesh. Peter keens, sweat slipping down his back as Mr. Stark whispers even filthier things in his ear, tells his how he’s going to fill his sweet little hole up with his come, how good it looks all swollen and slick for him, and Peter’s going to lay there and take it like the good boy he knows he is.

With that, Peter seizes up and comes, screaming his name. Mr. Stark grunts as his walls tighten around him, squeezing his cock as he milks him. Peter slumps against the couch, spent, whimpering softly when he feels his hips stutter, and then slow as he comes with a low groan, buried deep inside him. 

Peter tries to catch his breath as he slowly pulls out of him, head spinning. He feels his fingers spread his cheeks apart as his come starts to drip out of him. He flushes, knowing he’s admiring his work.

“So,” Peter says, after a moment, voice wrecked and raw, “I think this calls for a pay raise.”

Mr. Stark laughs softly, and Peter turns over tentatively, sitting facing him, legs crossed. He’s dripping onto the cream leather sofa, but ignores it for now. “At least 5 extra dollars an hour,” he tells him, his own smile causing his. Mr. Stark’s thick dark hair, usually perfectly styled, is a mess. He looks almost as dazed as he is. Peter feels proud.

“I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that you’re actively thinking and accepting that you just prostituted yourself, or the fact that you’re only asking for an extra five dollars.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Sorry we can’t all use hundred-dollar bills as toilet paper _Mr. Stark_.”

He smiles again. “Thought I’d fucked that sass out of you.”

“Never,” he grins. 

After a moment, he nods. “Yeah, okay. I’ll increase your pay, but not by a measly five dollars. Think about how much you need a little more, and then get back to me.”

“I was kidding, about the raise,” he says. Mr. Stark already pays him more than he’d ever received before, at any job. “You don’t have to–”

“Think about it,” he insists, “and then get back to me.”

Peter’s head is still spinning a little as he processes what he’s saying. “And – and what about … this?” He asks, gesturing between the two of them.

“Already after round two, huh?” He asks, chuckling when Peter blushes. “We can… see how it goes. Might even get you one of those little black and white maid outfits. For my viewing pleasure only, of course.”

He nods slowly. “So, would this make you like, my … sugar daddy, or something?” He asks, not meeting his gaze.

He stands up, pulling Peter up too, before bending and quite literally sweeping him off his feet, pulling him against him and carrying him bridal-style up the stairs. 

“We’ll shower and talk about this later, okay? You look exhausted.”

Peter rests his head against his chest, the feeling of contentment within him allowing him to acknowledge the underlying tiredness.

“Took my last final today, I was up all night last night studying for it,” he yawns. Mr. Stark brings Peter into the bathroom, turning on the shower and carefully setting him down inside. 

“You need to sleep,” Mr. Stark says, pulling him against him once more, and planting a kiss on the top of his head. Peter hides his smile against his chest. 

“Okay,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “Daddy.”

He partly means it as a joke, but the air is suddenly thick around them. 

“Peter,” he says after a moment. “If you want to make it to bed, I’m going to need you to stop talking.”

He laughs, looking up at him. “Okay. But when I wake up…”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re fucking insatiable. When you wake up, we can talk.”

And Peter couldn’t ask for anything more.

**Author's Note:**

> so ... yeah. i might continue this, i might not, it all depends on if another wave of inspiration hits me. let me know what you think though
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ starkftpark


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